


Acetaminophen

by Raikishi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Babies, Dean Feels, Gen, Illnesses, John Winchester's Bad Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:52:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raikishi/pseuds/Raikishi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas gets a little advice from a friend on infant care</p>
<p>Based on 9.06 (mild spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acetaminophen

    “Dad… dad, it’s Dean,” Dean breathes into the phone, heart pounding against his ribs as he grips the cell phone in both hands.

    He does his best not to squirm on his seat, unable to stop shaking. John had warned him to use the cell phone for emergencies and emergencies only.

    A small part of Dean warns him that this is not an emergency, that he has no right to be interrupting John at work and he almost hangs up. His fingers spasm against the warmed metal and he tries to make himself put the phone down. From the hotel bed, Sam makes a soft noise, the sound thick and sluggish, a choked sob more than anything else. Dean casts a desperate look in that direction, flinching as Sam writhes, the cough racking his body harsh and all sorts of broken. It makes Dean want to curl in on himself and close his ears against it but when it stops it’s even worst. Sam’s breathing is uneven at best and it rattles in the air like bones. 

    “Dad,” Dean can hear his voice dip towards panic, drawing enough courage from Sam’s plight to keep the call going. He takes a deep breath, trying to gather himself.

_Stop being such a crybaby._

_You’ve got to take care of your brother._

    “Sammy’s burning up,” he says, trying to keep his voice low and on the bed Sammy makes a soft noise.   
 

   Dean pitches his voice even lower instinctively, hopes it carries through on the poor connection, “I think he might need to go to the hospital.”

    He closes his eyes against the terror shaking him to the very core, can hear John’s voice, a hundred shades of disappointment as he yells down another of Dean’s ideas. Dean knows better than this; they’re not allowed into hospitals. Hospitals mean IDs and invasive questions. They also mean insurance information and money. 

    Dean throws a desperate glance at the spread of bills across the motel table. He pushes at them with a finger, buzzing with anxiety as he counts them for the thirteenth time. He’d searched the entire room for spare coins and even then all they have nowhere near enough for a proper doctor, much less medication. He curses himself for not planning better and presses his fingers against the throbbing pain between his brows, gritting his teeth.

    “Dad, call me back,” he tries again, hearing the shaky plead in his voice and hates himself a little more for it.

    He hangs up and walks over to Sam, hovering uncertainly for a long time until his brother turns, face contorted into a frown.

    “It’s okay Sammy,” Dean tries, patting his brother gently. The words sound wrong, awkward on his tongue and he straightens a bit, tries to force confidence into his voice, “Come on you wuss. It’s just a cold.”

    Sam hacks out a cough, tiny body writhing with the force of it and makes a soft noise Dean recognizes. Sammy was always a fussy baby, tossing and turning every night, unable to get comfortable for the longest time. He’d cry and fuss into the night but he’d been healthy, never had more than the minor cold.

    Sam makes a soft whimpering sound, pulling frantically in order to get air into his lungs. Dean tries not to think about how vulnerable his brother is as he reaches out to squeeze Sam’s hand.

    “You’re such a baby,” Dean mutters, voice cracking a bit and Sam fusses at him, barely conscious. 

    He needs to do something but he can’t leave Sam alone. There are a number of things crawling around in the dark, ready to get at them and he’s not prepared for this, not smart enough to be better. Dean bites on the back of his fist, holding back the sob building in the back of his throat and throws a desperate glance at the door.

    He holds the cell phone in on hand, waiting for a call that won’t come. He drags his fingers down across the keys, though there’s no one to call.

    His dad’s not the type to make friends. 

    Dean jerks at the thought, a memory coming hard and fast through the terror like a bullet train. There was one guy, Robert or something like that. Maybe Robbie? 

    He’d given Dean his number when they met and he’d been nice, had allowed Dean a glimpse into the Impala while John had been gathering supplies. 

    Dean had glanced at the dirty napkin, wrinkled his nose at the stains and Bobby had laughed at him, ruffled his hair and called him a snot-nosed punk. And Dean had, had…

    He’s moving without thinking, diving into their supplies. 

    Had he taken it?

_Had he taken it?!_

    He’s moving on blind panic and desperate hope along, digging through rock salt, bullets, flasks of holy water. Once or twice he nicks himself on a silver knife and thinks hysterically that that’s good; he’s not a shapeshifter or some other freak of nature about to gobble Sammy up.

    And where the _fuck_ was it!?

    “Ah–” he chokes on a sigh of relief as he glimpses the slip of paper, snatches it up and holds it to the light.

    It reads clearly:

     _Bobby Singer._

    Followed by a number, faded but still legible.

    Dean almost wants to cry and sniffs, pulling in a shaky breath as he holds the slip tight as if afraid it would blow away. Fingers shaking, he thumbs in the numbers. As it rings, Dean has a haunting sense of despair crawling along his spine and he tightens sweaty palms around the phone, mouthing please over and over.

    “Hello?” the voice that comes through is rough, gravelly as if the man’s just woken up.”

    “Bobby?” Dean tries, “It’s Dean; I-I need your help.”

    “Alright boy,” the man says, weariness clearing up immediately, “What do you need?”

    The words pour from Dean like water from a sieve. He tells the man, a freaking stranger given how long they’ve known each other, that Sam’s sick with something, much worst than a stupid cold. Dean babbles that it’s fucking stupid because his brother’s never had more than a cold, voice kicking up an octave, as he unleashes on how he was so careful, didn’t feed Sam anything bad, bundled him up and nearly cries at the thought of how he failed his brother. And he can’t reach John and there’s no money and Sammy’s burning up and he just doesn’t. Know. What. To. Do.

    “Alright boy,” Bobby’s quiet rumble is a balm on Dean’s fraying nerves, “Here’s what you do.”

* * *

      
    “Acetaminophen,” Cas reads off the label, looking over at the quietly babbling infant in Dean’s arms, “How did you know?”

    Dean’s face dips briefly into something like joy as the infant palms at his nose before it’s quickly shut off, hidden between the multitude of layers Cas has become familiar with.

    “Sammy was a pain in the ass too,” Dean offers, rocking absently. He noses at the baby’s forehead, touching his lips there and he must learn something from that because when he pulls back there’s a look of soft relief there.

    “Lil punk,” Dean mutters and the infant babbles at him, coaxes a smile from the hunter.  
  



End file.
